THE bell
rang
furiously and,
when
Miss
Parker went
to
the tube,
a
furious
voice called
out
in
a
piercing North
of
Ireland accent: "Send Farrington here!"
Miss
Parker returned
to
her machine,
saying
to
a
man
who
was
writing
at
a
desk: "Mr. Alleyne wants
you
upstairs." The
man
muttered "Blast him!" under
his
breath
and
pushed
back
his
chair
to
stand
up.
When
he
stood
up
he
was
tall
and
of
great
bulk.
He
had
a
hanging face, dark wine-coloured,
with
fair
eyebrows
and
moustache:
his
eyes bulged forward slightly
and
the whites
of
them
were
dirty.
He
lifted
up
the
counter
and, passing
by
the clients, went
out
of
the
office
with
a
heavy step.
He
went
heavily
upstairs
until
he
came
to
the
second
landing,
where
a
door
bore
a
brass
plate
with
the
inscription
Mr. Alleyne. Here
he
halted, puffing
with
labour
and
vexation,
and
knocked. The shrill voice cried: "Come in!" The
man
entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne,
a
little
man
wearing gold-rimmed glasses
on
a
cleanshaven face,
shot
his
head
up
over
a
pile
of
documents. The
head
itself
was
so
pink
and
hairless
it
seemed
like
a
large
egg
reposing
on
the papers. Mr. Alleyne
did
not
lose
a
moment: "Farrington?
What
is
the meaning
of
this?
Why
have
I
always
to
complain
of
you?
May
I
ask
you
why
you
haven't
made
a
copy
of
that
contract
between
Bodley
and
Kirwan? I told
you
it
must
be
ready
by
four o'clock." "But Mr. Shelley said, sir——" "Mr. Shelley said, sir....
Kindly
attend
to
what
I
say
and
not
to
what
Mr. Shelley says, sir.
You
have
always
some
excuse
or
another
for
shirking work.
Let
me
tell
you
that
if
the
contract
is
not copied before
this
evening
I'll
lay
the
matter
before Mr. Crosbie....
Do
you
hear
me
now?" "Yes, sir." "Do
you
hear
me
now?... Ay
and
another
little
matter! I
might
as
well
be
talking
to
the
wall
as
talking
to
you.
Understand
once
for
all
that
you
get
a
half an
hour
for
your
lunch
and
not an
hour
and
a
half.
How
many
courses
do
you
want, I'd
like
to
know....
Do
you
mind
me
now?" "Yes, sir." Mr. Alleyne bent
his
head
again
upon
his
pile
of
papers. The
man
stared fixedly
at
the polished
skull
which
directed the affairs
of
Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility.
A
spasm
of
rage
gripped
his
throat
for
a
few
moments
and
then
passed, leaving
after
it
a
sharp
sensation
of
thirst. The
man
recognised the
sensation
and
felt
that
he
must
have
a
good
night's drinking. The
middle
of
the
month
was
passed and,
if
he
could
get
the
copy
done
in
time, Mr. Alleyne
might
give
him
an order
on
the cashier.
He
stood still, gazing fixedly
at
the
head
upon
the
pile
of
papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began
to
upset all the papers, searching
for
something. Then,
as
if
he
had been unaware
of
the man's
presence
till
that
moment,
he
shot
up
his
head
again, saying: "Eh?
Are
you
going
to
stand
there all day?
Upon
my word, Farrington,
you
take
things easy!" "I
was
waiting
to
see..." "Very good,
you
needn't
wait
to
see.
Go
downstairs
and
do
your work." The
man
walked
heavily
towards
the
door
and,
as
he
went
out
of
the room,
he
heard Mr. Alleyne
cry
after
him
that
if
the
contract
was
not copied
by
evening
Mr. Crosbie would
hear
of
the matter.
He
returned
to
his
desk
in
the
lower
office
and
counted the sheets
which
remained
to
be
copied.
He
took
up
his
pen
and
dipped
it
in
the
ink
but
he
continued
to
stare stupidly
at
the
last
words
he
had written:
In
no
case
shall
the said Bernard Bodley be... The
evening
was
falling
and
in
a
few
minutes
they
would
be
lighting
the gas:
then
he
could
write.
He
felt
that
he
must
slake
the
thirst
in
his
throat.
He
stood
up
from
his
desk
and, lifting the
counter
as
before, passed
out
of
the office.
As
he
was
passing
out
the
chief
clerk looked
at
him
inquiringly. "It's all right, Mr. Shelley," said the man, pointing
with
his
finger
to
indicate
the
objective
of
his
journey. The
chief
clerk glanced
at
the hat-rack, but,
seeing
the
row
complete, offered no remark.
As
soon
as
he
was
on
the landing the
man
pulled
a
shepherd's
plaid
cap
out
of
his
pocket,
put
it
on
his
head
and
ran
quickly
down
the
rickety
stairs.
From
the
street
door
he
walked
on
furtively
on
the
inner
side
of
the
path
towards
the
corner
and
all
at
once
dived
into
a
doorway.
He
was
now
safe
in
the dark
snug
of
O'Neill's shop,
and
filling
up
the
little
window
that
looked
into
the
bar
with
his
inflamed face, the colour
of
dark wine
or
dark meat,
he
called out: "Here, Pat,
give
us
a
g.p.,
like
a
good
fellow." The
curate
brought
him
a
glass
of
plain
porter. The
man
drank
it
at
a
gulp
and
asked
for
a
caraway
seed.
He
put
his
penny
on
the
counter
and, leaving the
curate
to
grope
for
it
in
the gloom, retreated
out
of
the
snug
as
furtively
as
he
had entered it. Darkness, accompanied
by
a
thick
fog,
was
gaining
upon
the
dusk
of
February
and
the lamps
in
Eustace
Street
had been lit. The
man
went
up
by
the houses
until
he
reached the
door
of
the office, wondering
whether
he
could
finish
his
copy
in
time.
On
the stairs
a
moist
pungent
odour
of
perfumes saluted
his
nose: evidently
Miss
Delacour had
come
while
he
was
out
in
O'Neill's.
He
crammed
his
cap
back
again
into
his
pocket
and
re-entered the office, assuming an air
of
absentmindedness. "Mr. Alleyne has been calling
for
you," said the
chief
clerk severely. "Where
were
you?" The
man
glanced
at
the
two
clients
who
were
standing
at
the
counter
as
if
to
intimate
that
their
presence
prevented
him
from
answering.
As
the clients
were
both
male
the
chief
clerk allowed
himself
a
laugh. "I
know
that
game,"
he
said. "Five times
in
one
day
is
a
little
bit... Well,
you
better
look
sharp
and
get
a
copy
of
our
correspondence
in
the Delacour
case
for
Mr. Alleyne."
This
address
in
the
presence
of
the public,
his
run
upstairs
and
the porter
he
had gulped
down
so
hastily
confused
the
man
and,
as
he
sat
down
at
his
desk
to
get
what
was
required,
he
realised
how
hopeless
was
the task
of
finishing
his
copy
of
the
contract
before half past five. The dark damp
night
was
coming
and
he
longed
to
spend
it
in
the bars, drinking
with
his
friends
amid
the
glare
of
gas
and
the
clatter
of
glasses.
He
got
out
the Delacour
correspondence
and
passed
out
of
the office.
He
hoped Mr. Alleyne would not
discover
that
the
last
two
letters
were
missing. The
moist
pungent
perfume
lay
all the
way
up
to
Mr. Alleyne's room.
Miss
Delacour
was
a
middle-aged
woman
of
Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne
was
said
to
be
sweet
on
her
or
on
her money.
She
came
to
the
office
often
and
stayed
a
long
time
when
she
came.
She
was
sitting
beside
his
desk
now
in
an
aroma
of
perfumes, smoothing the
handle
of
her
umbrella
and
nodding the
great
black
feather
in
her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled
his
chair round
to
face her
and
thrown
his
right
foot
jauntily
upon
his
left
knee. The
man
put
the
correspondence
on
the
desk
and
bowed respectfully but
neither
Mr. Alleyne
nor
Miss
Delacour took
any
notice
of
his
bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped
a
finger
on
the
correspondence
and
then
flicked
it
towards
him
as
if
to
say: "That's all right:
you
can
go." The
man
returned
to
the
lower
office
and
sat
down
again
at
his
desk.
He
stared intently
at
the
incomplete
phrase:
In
no
case
shall
the said Bernard Bodley be...
and
thought
how
strange
it
was
that
the
last
three
words began
with
the
same
letter. The
chief
clerk began
to
hurry
Miss
Parker,
saying
she
would
never
have
the letters typed
in
time
for
post. The
man
listened
to
the clicking
of
the
machine
for
a
few
minutes
and
then
set
to
work
to
finish
his
copy. But
his
head
was
not clear
and
his
mind
wandered
away
to
the
glare
and
rattle
of
the public-house.
It
was
a
night
for
hot
punches.
He
struggled
on
with
his
copy, but
when
the clock struck
five
he
had
still
fourteen
pages
to
write.
Blast
it!
He
couldn't finish
it
in
time.
He
longed
to
execrate
aloud,
to
bring
his
fist
down
on
something
violently.
He
was
so
enraged
that
he
wrote Bernard Bernard
instead
of
Bernard Bodley
and
had
to
begin
again
on
a
clean sheet.
He
felt
strong
enough
to
clear
out
the
whole
office
singlehanded.
His
body
ached
to
do
something,
to
rush
out
and
revel
in
violence. All the indignities
of
his
life
enraged him....
Could
he
ask
the
cashier
privately
for
an advance? No, the
cashier
was
no good, no
damn
good:
he
wouldn't
give
an advance....
He
knew
where
he
would meet the boys: Leonard
and
O'Halloran
and
Nosey Flynn. The
barometer
of
his
emotional
nature
was
set
for
a
spell
of
riot.
His
imagination
had
so
abstracted
him
that
his
name
was
called
twice
before
he
answered. Mr. Alleyne
and
Miss
Delacour
were
standing outside the
counter
and
all the clerks had
turn
round
in
anticipation
of
something. The
man
got
up
from
his
desk. Mr. Alleyne began
a
tirade
of
abuse,
saying
that
two
letters
were
missing. The
man
answered
that
he
knew
nothing
about
them,
that
he
had
made
a
faithful
copy. The
tirade
continued:
it
was
so
bitter
and
violent
that
the
man
could
hardly
restrain
his
fist
from
descending
upon
the
head
of
the
manikin
before him. "I
know
nothing
about
any
other
two
letters,"
he
said stupidly. "You—know—nothing.
Of
course
you
know
nothing," said Mr. Alleyne. "Tell me,"
he
added, glancing first
for
approval
to
the
lady
beside
him, "do
you
take
me
for
a
fool?
Do
you
think
me
an
utter
fool?" The
man
glanced
from
the lady's face
to
the
little
egg-shaped
head
and
back
again; and,
almost
before
he
was
aware
of
it,
his
tongue had found
a
felicitous moment: "I don't think, sir,"
he
said, "that that's
a
fair
question
to
put
to
me." There
was
a
pause
in
the
very
breathing
of
the clerks. Everyone
was
astounded (the author
of
the witticism no less
than
his
neighbours)
and
Miss
Delacour,
who
was
a
stout
amiable
person, began
to
smile
broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed
to
the
hue
of
a
wild
rose
and
his
mouth
twitched
with
a
dwarf's passion.
He
shook
his
fist
in
the man's face
till
it
seemed
to
vibrate
like
the
knob
of
some
electric
machine: "You
impertinent
ruffian!
You
impertinent
ruffian! I'll
make
short
work
of
you!
Wait
till
you
see! You'll
apologise
to
me
for
your
impertinence
or
you'll
quit
the
office
instanter! You'll
quit
this, I'm telling you,
or
you'll
apologise
to
me!"
He
stood
in
a
doorway
opposite
the
office
watching
to
see
if
the
cashier
would
come
out
alone. All the clerks passed
out
and
finally the
cashier
came
out
with
the
chief
clerk.
It
was
no
use
trying
to
say
a
word
to
him
when
he
was
with
the
chief
clerk. The
man
felt
that
his
position
was
bad
enough.
He
had been obliged
to
offer
an
abject
apology
to
Mr. Alleyne
for
his
impertinence
but
he
knew
what
a
hornet's
nest
the
office
would
be
for
him.
He
could
remember
the
way
in
which
Mr. Alleyne had hounded
little
Peake
out
of
the
office
in
order
to
make
room
for
his
own
nephew.
He
felt savage
and
thirsty
and
revengeful, annoyed
with
himself
and
with
everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would
never
give
him
an hour's rest;
his
life
would
be
a
hell
to
him.
He
had
made
a
proper
fool
of
himself
this
time.
Could
he
not
keep
his
tongue
in
his
cheek? But
they
had
never
pulled
together
from
the first,
he
and
Mr. Alleyne,
ever
since
the
day
Mr. Alleyne had overheard
him
mimicking
his
North
of
Ireland
accent
to
amuse
Higgins
and
Miss
Parker:
that
had been the
beginning
of
it.
He
might
have
tried Higgins
for
the money, but
sure
Higgins
never
had
anything
for
himself.
A
man
with
two
establishments
to
keep
up,
of
course
he
couldn't....
He
felt
his
great
body
again
aching
for
the
comfort
of
the public-house. The fog had begun
to
chill
him
and
he
wondered
could
he
touch
Pat
in
O'Neill's.
He
could
not
touch
him
for
more
than
a
bob—and
a
bob
was
no use.
Yet
he
must
get
money
somewhere
or
other:
he
had spent
his
last
penny
for
the g.p.
and
soon
it
would
be
too
late
for
getting
money
anywhere. Suddenly,
as
he
was
fingering
his
watch-chain,
he
thought
of
Terry
Kelly's pawn-office
in
Fleet
Street.
That
was
the dart!
Why
didn't
he
think
of
it
sooner?
He
went through the
narrow
alley
of
Temple
Bar
quickly, muttering
to
himself
that
they
could
all
go
to
hell
because
he
was
going
to
have
a
good
night
of
it. The clerk
in
Terry
Kelly's said
A
crown! but the consignor held
out
for
six
shillings;
and
in
the
end
the
six
shillings
was
allowed
him
literally.
He
came
out
of
the pawn-office joyfully, making
a
little
cylinder,
of
the coins
between
his
thumb
and
fingers.
In
Westmoreland
Street
the footpaths
were
crowded
with
young
men
and
women returning
from
business
and
ragged
urchins ran here
and
there yelling
out
the names
of
the
evening
editions. The
man
passed through the crowd, looking
on
the
spectacle
generally
with
proud
satisfaction
and
staring masterfully
at
the office-girls.
His
head
was
full
of
the noises
of
tram-gongs
and
swishing trolleys
and
his
nose
already
sniffed the curling fumes
of
punch.
As
he
walked
on
he
preconsidered the terms
in
which
he
would
narrate
the
incident
to
the boys: "So, I
just
looked
at
him—coolly,
you
know,
and
looked
at
her.
Then
I looked
back
at
him
again—taking my time,
you
know. 'I don't
think
that
that's
a
fair
question
to
put
to
me,' says I." Nosey Flynn
was
sitting
up
in
his
usual
corner
of
Davy Byrne's and,
when
he
heard the story,
he
stood Farrington
a
half-one,
saying
it
was
as
smart
a
thing
as
ever
he
heard. Farrington stood
a
drink
in
his
turn.
After
a
while
O'Halloran
and
Paddy Leonard came
in
and
the
story
was
repeated
to
them. O'Halloran stood tailors
of
malt, hot, all round
and
told the
story
of
the retort
he
had
made
to
the
chief
clerk
when
he
was
in
Callan's
of
Fownes's Street; but,
as
the retort
was
after
the
manner
of
the liberal shepherds
in
the eclogues,
he
had
to
admit
that
it
was
not
as
clever
as
Farrington's retort.
At
this
Farrington told the boys
to
polish
off
that
and
have
another.
Just
as
they
were
naming
their
poisons
who
should
come
in
but Higgins!
Of
course
he
had
to
join
in
with
the others. The men asked
him
to
give
his
version
of
it,
and
he
did
so
with
great
vivacity
for
the sight
of
five
small
hot
whiskies
was
very
exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing
when
he
showed the
way
in
which
Mr. Alleyne shook
his
fist
in
Farrington's face.
Then
he
imitated Farrington, saying, "And here
was
my nabs,
as
cool
as
you
please,"
while
Farrington looked
at
the
company
out
of
his
heavy dirty eyes, smiling
and
at
times drawing
forth
stray drops
of
liquor
from
his
moustache
with
the
aid
of
his
lower
lip.
When
that
round
was
over
there
was
a
pause. O'Halloran had
money
but
neither
of
the
other
two
seemed
to
have
any;
so
the
whole
party
left
the shop
somewhat
regretfully.
At
the
corner
of
Duke
Street
Higgins
and
Nosey Flynn bevelled
off
to
the
left
while
the
other
three
turned
back
towards
the city.
Rain
was
drizzling
down
on
the cold streets and,
when
they
reached the
Ballast
Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The
bar
was
full
of
men
and
loud
with
the
noise
of
tongues
and
glasses. The
three
men pushed past the whining match-sellers
at
the
door
and
formed
a
little
party
at
the
corner
of
the counter.
They
began
to
exchange
stories. Leonard introduced
them
to
a
young
fellow
named Weathers
who
was
performing
at
the Tivoli
as
an
acrobat
and
knockabout artiste. Farrington stood
a
drink
all round. Weathers said
he
would
take
a
small Irish
and
Apollinaris. Farrington,
who
had
definite
notions
of
what
was
what, asked the boys would
they
have
an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim
to
make
theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood
a
round
and
then
Farrington stood
another
round, Weathers protesting
that
the
hospitality
was
too
Irish.
He
promised
to
get
them
in
behind
the scenes
and
introduce
them
to
some
nice
girls. O'Halloran said
that
he
and
Leonard would go, but
that
Farrington wouldn't
go
because
he
was
a
married man;
and
Farrington's heavy dirty eyes leered
at
the
company
in
token
that
he
understood
he
was
being chaffed. Weathers
made
them
all
have
just
one
little
tincture
at
his
expense
and
promised
to
meet
them
later
on
at
Mulligan's
in
Poolbeg Street.
When
the Scotch
House
closed
they
went round
to
Mulligan's.
They
went
into
the parlour
at
the
back
and
O'Halloran ordered small
hot
specials all round.
They
were
all
beginning
to
feel mellow. Farrington
was
just
standing
another
round
when
Weathers came back.
Much
to
Farrington's
relief
he
drank
a
glass
of
bitter
this
time. Funds
were
getting
low
but
they
had
enough
to
keep
them
going. Presently
two
young
women
with
big
hats
and
a
young
man
in
a
check suit came
in
and
sat
at
a
table close by. Weathers saluted
them
and
told the
company
that
they
were
out
of
the Tivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered
at
every
moment
in
the
direction
of
one
of
the
young
women. There
was
something
striking
in
her appearance. An
immense
scarf
of
peacock-blue
muslin
was
wound
round her
hat
and
knotted
in
a
great
bow
under her chin;
and
she
wore
bright
yellow
gloves, reaching
to
the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly
at
the plump
arm
which
she
moved
very
often
and
with
much
grace;
and
when,
after
a
little
time,
she
answered
his
gaze
he
admired
still
more
her
large
dark brown eyes. The
oblique
staring
expression
in
them
fascinated him.
She
glanced
at
him
once
or
twice
and,
when
the
party
was
leaving the room,
she
brushed against
his
chair
and
said "O, pardon!"
in
a
London accent.
He
watched her
leave
the
room
in
the
hope
that
she
would
look
back
at
him, but
he
was
disappointed.
He
cursed
his
want
of
money
and
cursed all the rounds
he
had stood, particularly all the whiskies
and
Apolinaris
which
he
had stood
to
Weathers.
If
there
was
one
thing
that
he
hated
it
was
a
sponge.
He
was
so
angry
that
he
lost
count
of
the
conversation
of
his
friends.
When
Paddy Leonard called
him
he
found
that
they
were
talking
about
feats
of
strength. Weathers
was
showing
his
biceps
muscle
to
the
company
and
boasting
so
much
that
the
other
two
had called
on
Farrington
to
uphold
the
national
honour. Farrington pulled
up
his
sleeve
accordingly
and
showed
his
biceps
muscle
to
the company. The
two
arms
were
examined
and
compared
and
finally
it
was
agreed
to
have
a
trial
of
strength. The table
was
cleared
and
the
two
men rested
their
elbows
on
it, clasping hands.
When
Paddy Leonard said "Go!"
each
was
to
try
to
bring
down
the other's
hand
on
to
the table. Farrington looked
very
serious
and
determined. The
trial
began.
After
about
thirty
seconds Weathers brought
his
opponent's
hand
slowly
down
on
to
the table. Farrington's dark wine-coloured face flushed darker
still
with
anger
and
humiliation
at
having been defeated
by
such
a
stripling. "You're not
to
put
the
weight
of
your
body
behind
it.
Play
fair,"
he
said. "Who's not playing fair?" said the other. "Come
on
again. The
two
best
out
of
three." The
trial
began again. The veins stood
out
on
Farrington's forehead,
and
the
pallor
of
Weathers'
complexion
changed
to
peony.
Their
hands
and
arms trembled under the stress.
After
a
long
struggle Weathers
again
brought
his
opponent's
hand
slowly
on
to
the table. There
was
a
murmur
of
applause
from
the spectators. The curate,
who
was
standing
beside
the table, nodded
his
red
head
towards
the
victor
and
said
with
stupid
familiarity: "Ah! that's the knack!" "What the
hell
do
you
know
about
it?" said Farrington fiercely, turning
on
the man. "What
do
you
put
in
your
gab
for?" "Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the
violent
expression
of
Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll
have
just
one
little
smahan
more
and
then
we'll
be
off."
A
very
sullen-faced
man
stood
at
the
corner
of
O'Connell
Bridge
waiting
for
the
little
Sandymount
tram
to
take
him
home.
He
was
full
of
smouldering
anger
and
revengefulness.
He
felt humiliated
and
discontented;
he
did
not
even
feel drunk;
and
he
had
only
twopence
in
his
pocket.
He
cursed everything.
He
had done
for
himself
in
the office, pawned
his
watch, spent all
his
money;
and
he
had not
even
got drunk.
He
began
to
feel
thirsty
again
and
he
longed
to
be
back
again
in
the
hot
reeking public-house.
He
had lost
his
reputation
as
a
strong
man, having been defeated
twice
by
a
mere
boy.
His
heart
swelled
with
fury
and,
when
he
thought
of
the
woman
in
the
big
hat
who
had brushed against
him
and
said Pardon!
his
fury
nearly choked him.
His
tram
let
him
down
at
Shelbourne
Road
and
he
steered
his
great
body
along
in
the
shadow
of
the
wall
of
the barracks.
He
loathed returning
to
his
home.
When
he
went
in
by
the side-door
he
found the
kitchen
empty
and
the
kitchen
fire
nearly out.
He
bawled upstairs: "Ada! Ada!"
His
wife
was
a
little
sharp-faced
woman
who
bullied her husband
when
he
was
sober
and
was
bullied
by
him
when
he
was
drunk.
They
had
five
children.
A
little
boy
came running
down
the stairs. "Who
is
that?" said the man, peering through the darkness. "Me, pa." "Who
are
you? Charlie?" "No, pa. Tom." "Where's your mother?" "She's
out
at
the chapel." "That's right....
Did
she
think
of
leaving
any
dinner
for
me?" "Yes, pa. I—" "Light the lamp.
What
do
you
mean
by
having the
place
in
darkness?
Are
the
other
children
in
bed?" The
man
sat
down
heavily
on
one
of
the chairs
while
the
little
boy
lit
the lamp.
He
began
to
mimic
his
son's
flat
accent,
saying
half
to
himself: "At the chapel.
At
the chapel,
if
you
please!"
When
the
lamp
was
lit
he
banged
his
fist
on
the table
and
shouted: "What's
for
my dinner?" "I'm going...
to
cook it, pa," said the
little
boy. The
man
jumped
up
furiously
and
pointed
to
the fire. "On
that
fire!
You
let
the
fire
out!
By
God, I'll
teach
you
to
do
that
again!"
He
took
a
step
to
the
door
and
seized the walking-stick
which
was
standing
behind
it. "I'll
teach
you
to
let
the
fire
out!"
he
said, rolling
up
his
sleeve
in
order
to
give
his
arm
free
play. The
little
boy
cried "O, pa!"
and
ran whimpering round the table, but the
man
followed
him
and
caught
him
by
the coat. The
little
boy
looked
about
him
wildly but,
seeing
no
way
of
escape,
fell
upon
his
knees. "Now, you'll
let
the
fire
out
the
next
time!" said the
man
striking
at
him
vigorously
with
the stick. "Take that,
you
little
whelp!" The
boy
uttered
a
squeal
of
pain
as
the
stick
cut
his
thigh.
He
clasped
his
hands
together
in
the air
and
his
voice shook
with
fright. "O, pa!"
he
cried. "Don't
beat
me, pa!
And
I'll... I'll
say
a
Hail
Mary
for
you.... I'll
say
a
Hail
Mary
for
you, pa,
if
you
don't
beat
me.... I'll
say
a
Hail
Mary...."